It is called Big Sur Country
where I live
and many men of letters
have passed through
none have denied its beauty
but few have felt at home here
old Henry Miller – city born
burned his bald head brown
trying to catch the color
of the sun of Partington
like Icarus he failed and in the end
retired to cement maze south of here
more at home in an elevator
than at those dizzy heights
and Jack Keruac
hitched his way along this granite coast
with no real sense of belonging
crawling here like an ant
he found the place a graveyard
the off shore rocks tombstones
in the ghost surf
on the road
running like a child in the dark
hearing things in the bushes
he hurried north to hide
in the mulch pits of Marin County
and NIchard Beatigan has come
and gone
and others drawn to and driven off
by the size and silence of this place
but Robinson Jeffers knew
that soaring old predator – sharp eyed
he knew
if he could speed time up
fast enough
we would see that the mountains
are dancing
and with us
Poem by Ric Masten